


Enceinte

by leobrat



Category: Wallflower Series - Lisa Kleypas
Genre: F/M, Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:58:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leobrat/pseuds/leobrat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evangeline, Lady St. Vincent, had caused a scandal a time or two before...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enceinte

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KathsAvery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathsAvery/gifts).



The Season was meant for young ladies in the finest ball gowns that they dreamt of since being little girls, whirling the nights away in English gardens, under starlit skies. The Season that Phoebe St. Vincent made her debut had the highest rainfall on record, with hardly any starry nights to be had. But for the oldest daughter of Lord and Lady St. Vincent, Sebastian and Evie as their friends called them, she made her own starlight. 

At the very height of the Season, the Rutledge Hotel held a most magnificent ball, and it did not matter how many times one attended, the invitations were always sought after, and among the most exclusive of any party held in London. The evening before the ball found the St. Vincent household in turmoil, as Phoebe was torn between her five favorite gowns, and Miranda and Claire (her younger sisters, still not quite old enough for balls) leapt and squawked around her, offering advice and opinions.

Sebastian had followed the merry sounds of his girls up the stairs and grinned at the familiar site of the happy chaos that accompanied all events in a house full of women (parties, teas, luncheons, the opening of a letter). Claire appeared to be doing ballet leaps around the room, while Miranda held every garment that Phoebe had discarded up to herself in the looking glass, already imagining how she would look in her own trousseau in a couple of years. 

However, his darling wife sat quietly in the corner, though her smile was soft for her girls. “N-now, children, we really must be getting along,” she called out, but couldn’t be heard over the squeals of excitement. Evie had a stammer in her younger years that had faded away in time, but still crept back if she were feeling especially emotional or tired. Sebastian cocked his head when he heard it, and went to her.

“Evie?” He said softly, laying his hand on the back of Phoebe’s vanity chair, where she was sitting. She laughed when she saw him, gesturing to their three girls, who never seemed to be down in spirits- each new party was a momentous occasion that had the potential to be the best night of Phoebe’s life. So very different from Evie’s own years as a debutante. 

Phoebe, along with her two closest friends, Isabelle Hunt and Lady Merritt Marsden, the daughters of former ‘wallflowers’, were the toast of the town, and never wanting for attention. Lady Merritt was all but promised to her childhood sweetheart, Stephen Crayton, the second son of a viscount, and Isabelle was enjoying her youth far too much (as were many of the young men of London) for her to have any thoughts of settling down. And then there was their Phoebe. She had always been a beauty, the image of her mother as a young girl, without the sadness she’d had when Sebastian first met her. And he’d been prepared to do battle this season, as she made her way into society and the wretched business of husband hunting. He’d always hated that term, and now that it was thrust upon him, it felt very much like putting his daughter up on an auction block rather than the other way around. 

“My darlings, we really must get going if I’m to put in an appearance,” Sebastian called out, a bit louder than his wife, and the girls all turned to their beloved papa, still leaping and jumping with excitement. Sebastian sighed fondly. “Phoebe, love, the blue watered-silk brings out your beautiful blue eyes. We all need to be ready to leave in forty-five minutes, I’ll be waiting downstairs.” This sent all the girls into another flurry as they all began to consult on how Phoebe should be wearing her hair, and Sebastian looked down to his wife, who was still sitting quietly in the chair, and he thought he saw a twinge of weariness around her mouth. “Evie, are you feeling all right?”

“Oh yes, I’m fine, it’s just…” She cut herself off right there, and flashed a brilliant smile at him. “I’m fine, Sebastian.” And then she was up, helping Phoebe to dress and laughing with her girls before he could question her further.

*

He very often had to cut his time at Season events rather short, because even more than his position as a member of the British peerage, the expectations of Sebastian, Lord St. Vincent as the owner and proprietor of Jenner’s Gaming Hall were far more demanding. He could feel all eyes of the married men on him throughout these affairs, as they waited for him to get the evening’s _real_ festivities going on down at King Street. But damn them all, sometimes he wanted a waltz with his wife, and to keep an eye on his little Phoebe (as he would always see her). Still, while Evie was off with Lady Westcliff in the powder room, Sebastian checked his watch. He could afford another half hour.

The sound of his daughter’s giggle turned his attention to the dance floor, where Phoebe was whirling through a waltz (the second) with Argus McKay, the Scottish marquess who hadn’t taken his eyes off of her all Season. The Scotsman’s deep baritone rang out over the din of the other couples, roaring along in laughter, and Sebastian suppressed a groan. 

McKay was young, not yet twenty-five, and had been entirely proper and respectful at every ball and supper with his daughter (as Evie was off with Lady Westcliff, he had asked Daisy Swift for her permission to dance with Phoebe), and even being as loud and gleeful and _Scottish_ as he was, he played by all of the _ton’s_ rules. He was big and barrel-chested and Phoebe looked like a child in his arms. Sebastian knew that he intended to offer for her, and he didn’t have any _real_ reason to object, it was just that…

His daughter. In Scotland.

As the dance ended, Sebastian caught the young marquess’s eye, and he began to lead Phoebe back over to her papa, just as Evie was returning to them as well. “I suppose you’ll be heading off?” She said, approaching her husband and resting her hand against his cheek.

“I have time for one dance,” he answered, pressing a kiss to her palm, and her face colored prettily. He so loved that he could still make her blush.

“No, it’s getting l-late,” she protested mildly, and once again, he was struck that not all seemed right with Evangeline. But she quickly pasted on a smile as the Westcliffs and Swifts joined them, and she raised her voice. “I don’t know if our family fortune will survive a night without income.” 

Sebastian rolled his eyes good-naturedly, but understood her perfectly. She did not want to talk right now.

“Might I offer you a loan, St. Vincent?” Matthew Swift proposed, in that dry American humor that Sebastian usually found so amusing.

“Oh, I should think I can stand on my own two feet,” Sebastian went along with the joke, but turned back to Evie to ask silently. _Are you sure?_

_Yes._

After two decades of marriage, no words were necessary.

*

Sebastian had only just started out on the short walk to his club when he heard heavy footsteps behind him and the unmistakable burr calling out, “My lord! If you would wait a moment!” 

Sebastian stopped, but did not turn. “McKay,” he greeted the younger man rather informally. 

McKay was grinning as he fell into step beside him, and Sebastian craned his neck to look at the massive young man. “Christ McKay, you’ve got to be six and a half feet tall,” Sebastian breathed. Once he was on his way to Jenner’s, any semblance of etiquette was shut off for the night, but McKay didn’t bat an eyelash.

“And over seventeen stone,” he answered proudly. 

They walked along in a rather uncomfortable silence for a short while, until McKay cleared his throat. “Fine weather we’re having tonight, my lord?” He asked as if it were a question, and Sebastian glanced towards the sky, where London’s ever-present gray drizzle was falling.

“Quite.”

After that first attempt at conversation dwindled, the marquess tried again. “Rather fine street for a walk, isn’t it?”

They were nearing the club, just around the block, and Sebastian could already hear the dulled sounds of men’s laughter, a stray curse word, and could feel the air rife with the evening’s possibilities. This was his domain. “McKay,” Sebastian said, stopping in his tracks. “Will you stop beating about the bush and just come out with it.”

“I…I…” McKay stuttered and took a deep breath. His face was quite nearly as red as his hair. “My lord, I want to marry your daughter, if she’ll have me. I love Phoebe. And I would like to have your permission to ask for her hand.”

Even expecting it as he had, it was still a blow to the gut to hear the words. _So it has finally come,_ Sebastian thought to himself. “Well,” he began. “I suppose you know about my heir,” Sebastian continued, with years of practiced gambler’s stoicism. “Or lack thereof.”

“I…you have no sons,” McKay answered after a moment.

“Correct, I have three daughters,” Sebastian answered placidly. “Lucky for me, the entail of the Duke of Kingston allows for a…skip in a generation.”

McKay cocked his head. “My lord?”

“If I…fail to produce an heir,” Sebastian grimaced, as he hated putting it that way. “The first son of my eldest daughter will inherit the title of Duke of Kingston.”

“The first son of your…” Ah, it seemed that this was a twist the young marquess was not expecting. “But that would mean…But my son will be _my_ heir, the marquess of the land at Galloway.”

“And my hypothetical grandson will be the Duke of Kingston,” Sebastian continued on. “Are we talking about the same lad?”

“I…with what ease do you expect me to just send my child down to England to…” McKay stopped himself as he realized what he was saying.

“No more easily than I would send _my_ child off to _Scotland_ ,” Sebastian rather felt like he was getting his point across. “So…are you still asking for my permission to marry my daughter?”

They had managed to reach the door of the club in the time they had been walking and talking, and McKay was worriedly wringing his hat in his hands. And it appeared he had no answer for Sebastian. As for the Viscount St. Vincent, he stood patiently on the sidewalk, letting the young man mull it over in his mind.

While they waited, the door opened, and Bill Prescott, Sebastian’s factotum stepped out onto the sidewalk, his face rather solemn. 

“What is it, Prescott, have you lost the house already tonight?”

The factotum held out a small envelope. “We’ve had a telegram just arrived for you, my lord. From Yorkshire.”

As Sebastian’s fingers closed over the paper, he had a peculiar feeling. He had grown up in Yorkshire, before Eton and then London. He very seldom visited. _Dear God._ Ignoring the letter opener Prescott had offered, Sebastian ripped open the envelope and read the brief contents. Just as he’d thought.

“Bad news, my lord?” McKay’s burr was soft behind his shoulder, and Sebastian turned to face him, this boy who claimed to love his daughter.

“News, young marquess,” Sebastian answered curtly. “My father is dead.”

*

Sebastian stood in the doorway, the grey light from outside filtering in through the window. It was that hour between pitch-black and dawn, almost looking like it could be early evening, and this was the usual time that he returned home. Evie was fast asleep, curled on her side, and Sebastian just stood, watching her, instead of climbing in bed for a cuddle. Nonetheless, she stirred in her sleep, blinking and finding him in the dark and called softly to him. “Husband?”

He smiled, and came to sit down next to her on the bed, stroking a hand over her hair, which was lightly threaded with silver. His lovely wife. She had been his salvation, for so very long. “Sorry to wake you, love.”

Though he had kept his voice low and even, she sat up at once. “Something has happened.”

“Don’t be alarmed-“

“What is it? Tell me, very fast.” 

Sebastian sighed and framed her face in his hands. “Congratulations, Evie, you are now a duchess.”

“But that means…” Evie murmured, bewildered, and then her eyes flew open in alarm.

“Yes,” Sebastian nodded. “The old man has finally kicked off.”

“Oh,” Evie threw her arms around him, pulling him in close, and as Sebastian breathed her in, she calmed him, as she always had. 

“I’ll be off to Yorkshire in the morning,” he said after a time, standing up from the bed and undoing his own cuffs without ringing for his valet. “I’ll go alone, no need to upheave Phoebe’s season when the old codger hardly ever paid attention to the girls. He didn’t see Claire more than twice.”

“Sebastian,” Evie said softly, folding her hands in her lap, and then she was quiet for a long time. So long that he stopped moving completely and turned to her, waiting with baited breath. “I’m expecting.”

All of the air in the room, all of the calm that always went along with holding his Evangeline seemed to rush out all at once and Sebastian sat back down, half-dressed. “So life has changed twice this day, before the sun rises,” he said softly. He felt Evie’s hand soft on his shoulder and turned to her. Her blue eyes were wide and he saw she was afraid.

“Say something, please,” she spoke slowly, and he knew that she was being conscious of her stammer. “I know that…we haven’t spoken of children in so very long, and at my age…” She laughed at herself, and Sebastian took a deep breath. He loved her so very much in that moment.

“You’re forty-two, Evie. You are not old,” he said gently. 

She laughed again, more of a snort this time. “With a daughter in the Season? What people will say…”

“When has that ever stopped us from doing anything at all?” And at this, they both laughed, loud enough to awaken their sleeping daughters but the house remained still. Sebastian took her hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss the gold band he’d put on her finger in Gretna Green, all those years ago. “ _Tha Gad Agam Ort._ ”

“Speaking of our daughter…did Argus McKay offer for Phoebe after you left the Rutledge?” Sebastian couldn’t help but notice how hopeful his wife sounded.

“He did. I haven’t given him an answer yet,” Sebastian ignored the chiding look his wife gave him. “I’ll speak to him when I’m home from Yorkshire.”

Phoebe shook her head. “Sebastian…what if it’s another girl?”

He smiled, kissing his wife of twenty years and gently passing a hand over the front of her belly. “What if it is?” 

*

“And I must be addressed as Lady Claire now?” 

Evie watched her youngest twirling around the living room. She had given the girls black armbands and black ribbons to wear in their hair as their only concession to mourning their grandfather. Evie had always respected him, but they had kept their visits quite brief on both sides. She wouldn’t force her girls into solitude for a man they had hardly known. They would stay home from the Hunts’ ball this weekend, that must be done at least, and Evie knew that it disappointed Phoebe.

Annabelle was paying them a visit to catch up before she would be consumed by the weekend’s preparations and festivities, and though Evie was glad to see her dear friend, she had to admit that she was a bit relieved to be staying home. She tired so easily these days. They exchanged a look as they watched Claire whirling in her newfound importance, as the daughter of a duke. It was like she was a whole new person. Evie was always happy to indulge her baby- particularly since she wouldn’t be ‘the baby’ for much longer.

“You haven’t told the girls yet,” Annabelle whispered, and Evie turned to her, only mildly surprised. Nothing escaped Annabelle’s notice, and she had always been the first to notice when the other Wallflowers got in the family way, before anyone had said a word. 

“No,” Evie answered, keeping an eye that Claire was still distracted. “Though I won’t be able to keep it a secret for long.”

Over Annabelle’s shoulder, Evie could see Phoebe meandering through the upper front hallway, a dreamy smile on her lips as she read what Evie imagined was a love letter from Argus McKay. He had sent one to the house every day that Sebastian was gone, and even though she was being kept from Season events, Phoebe seemed to be walking on air. Evie frowned, and Annabelle followed her gaze up to Phoebe. “And Lady Phoebe? She does not know about the entail, I take it?”

Evie sighed. “We didn’t want the added pressure on her Season. Sebastian spoke to the marquess before he left, and I just hope that he’s not toying with her.”

Annabelle softened her gaze in concern. “Do you think he would really do that?”

Evie shrugged. “We don’t know him at all, really. And it seems simple, to just enjoy the rest of the Season with a pretty girl, rather than an uncomfortable breaking off. And then he can run back to Scotland…” Evie lowered her voice. “And then on the other hand, if it all goes well, my baby will be leaving me, to go so very far away.”

“We never thought the day would come when we would have to give them up,” Annabelle answered, her eyes very far away. She patted her hands over Evie’s middle, giving a careful eye over to Claire, who was still twirling, joined by Phoebe, who had entered the room, her precious letter tucked in her sleeve (Evie could see it peaking out). “We’ll keep this one close for a little longer.”

*

When Sebastian returned home a week later, it was in the dead of night and the house was asleep. Like so many other nights before, he tucked himself around Evie without waking her, and in the morning, she had a beautiful, golden man holding her tight. 

The St. Vincent household did not keep the strictest of hours for breakfast, with its lord always inclined to sleep in, very often with the lady of the house as well. Miranda was the early riser in the family, usually with some sort of fanciful novel (or when she could sneak one, a scandalous story by her aunt Daisy), and sometimes her sisters joined her, sometimes they didn’t. On that morning, though, the girls were surprised to see their parents join them, arm in arm, a little bit after they had been seated, and they all rose and ran to their father, not realizing how much they had missed him until he was back. He hugged them all tightly, running his hand over Phoebe’s cheek with especial tenderness.

As they sat down, though, Sebastian grew quiet as they ate, and seemed to be glancing at the door quite often. This was no matter, as the girls were all talking over each other, as usual, and Claire was pestering Phoebe about ‘Argus’ (“ _please_ call him Lord Galloway, dear” Evie had murmured quietly). But Phoebe went stark white (even paler than usual) when their butler cleared his throat loudly (it seemed he had been doing this for some time) and all looked to see the red devil himself, the Scottish marquess standing at the door, being announced. Sebastian rose and went to greet him, seemingly not surprised at all by his presence, and as he passed in front of his wife, he threw her a flirtatious wink, that only she could see and she looked down, smiling at herself. Her husband was quite sly when he wanted to be.

“Phoebe, my dear,” Sebastian said gently. “I believe the marquess has something he wants to speak to you about a matter.” And then Argus McKay stood stock still for a few moments, seeming incredulous that he was meant to perform in front of the entire family.

“Oh dear,” said Evie under her breath, as Sebastian joined her back at his seat. Phoebe and Miranda both held their breath, and Claire looked as though she would burst out laughing at any moment.

“My lord, my…” McKay swallowed, and cleared his throat. “My…my dear lady Phoebe, I would like to ask you to…” His words seemed to fail him again, and Evie watched her husband watch this poor boy stall. He looked to the sideboard. “I would like to ask if I may have a plate?” 

Sebastian gestured for a footman, who piled a plate high with kippers and eggs, and placed him between Evie and Phoebe. After a mouthful of food, Sebastian could see that the lad’s courage was returning to him, but a further glance down the table showed that his wife was going to disagree with the scent of slightly cooled kippers.

“My lady,” McKay began again, facing Phoebe on his right side, and oblivious to Lady Kingston’s green expression on his left. “Your father has given his permission for me to ask the most important question of my life.” Phoebe was absolutely glowing, but it looked as though Evie was doing all she could to hold on to her composure. “It’s madness to think that two months ago, we did not even know each other, but in my short time in London, you have become…quite important to me.” Claire clamped her hand over her mouth to keep in a squeal of glee, and McKay continued. “Hang your family’s entail, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” He said this with a pointed stare at Sebastian, who had to give the boy credit for his gut, even if he wanted to give him a drubbing at that moment. At this, Phoebe’s eyes began to cloud in confusion but McKay barreled on, without explanation. “And…in all of my own madness, I must ask for you to do me the honor of becoming my wife before the Season is through.”

At this last, Phoebe clutched her hand over her heart (all talk of entails forgotten), Claire and Miranda both leaped up in exultation and Evangeline, Duchess of Kingston, ran to the sideboard and cast up her crumpets in an empty warming pan. 

The room was still for a moment, all unsure of what to do when a duchess had lost her stomach. And then Sebastian went to his wife, pulling her into him and giving him her handkerchief.

“Well, McKay,” he said. “It seems we’ll have to allow you into our family now, whether we like it or not.”

*

Evangeline, Duchess of Kingston, caused a scandal (not nearly her first), when she attended her eldest daughter’s wedding _enceinte_. Her husband and friends, and her younger daughters, who were well aware of their mother’s condition at this point, tried to rally around her to help conceal her swollen middle, but any woman who’d had a baby knew and swiftly went to tell two friends. 

After the wedding, Evie and Sebastian, along with their daughters and new son-in-law, went to spend the summer with Lord and Lady Westcliff at their Hampshire country estate. It was a very special place for the family, where Evie and Sebastian had met years ago, and would be so much more relaxing for Evie in the later days of her confinement. And it was an even greater comfort that Phoebe and Argus had put off going back to Galloway, and choosing to spend the summer in Hampshire after their honeymoon. Phoebe was more than a little angry when it was explained to her about the entail and why it had been kept from her, but Sebastian had decided to give Argus permission when the entail didn’t matter to him, and they all decided to take the Scotsman’s advice to cross that bridge when they came to it. The days passed pleasantly in conversation and leisurely walks around the grounds, and the nights were cool.

Evie’s birthing pains started in the middle of one night towards the beginning of September, after a particularly delicious male of roasted salmon, and a few weeks earlier than anyone had been expecting. Even so, she wasn’t so very alarmed and lay quietly beside her husband, curled on her side and keeping her breathing even. At one point, Sebastian rolled over, and closed his arm around her and whispered in her ear, “It’s time?”

“It’s time.”

When the Westcliff household woke the next morning, first Lillian, Lady Westcliff came into their room to offer her assistance and sit by Evie. Sebastian left the ladies, and found his old friend, Lord Westcliff in his library, enjoying a cigar. Marcus offered one to Sebastian, but he declined. Not yet. 

“I’ve sent for the doctor in the village,” Westcliff said, and Sebastian thanked him wordlessly, sinking down on a leather sofa. Eventually Argus McKay found them and his new son-in-law seemed to understand that this was not the time for chatter. When the doctor arrived, Sebastian went to greet him in Evie’s suite, and to check on his wife’s progress.

“But you can’t deliver my child!” He cried when he opened the door. “You’re barely more than a child yourself!”

The young man in the room straightened up, and he was rather tall even if he was still quite lean and adjusted his spectacles. “I graduated at the top of my class. I’m more than qualified to-“

“How many babies have you delivered?” Sebastian demanded, walking to the edge of the bed, and throwing all of the weight of his dukely intimidation at Dr. Top-Of-His-Class, and at this, he faltered.

“Well,” he stalled, in a way that reminded Sebastian of Argus. “This would be my first.”

Sebastian couldn’t speak for a moment, but then he felt Evie’s hand reach up to close over his own, and he looked down at his wife, who was pale and breathing shallowly, but no fear in her eyes. “F-fortunately, young man,” she said, carefully intoning each word. “It’s not mine.”

Even though it was highly irregular, Sebastian stayed in the birthing room with Evie (nobody was about to eject a duke from the room) and held her hand, but only after he promised to not bark at Dr. Crowley and allow him to do his work. It seemed that nobody would tell a duke what to do, except of course, for his duchess. Phoebe sat on her mother’s other side, and Lady Westcliff oversaw it all, calling for maids to bring more towels, more hot water, whatever might be needed.

The rest of the household, Lords Westcliff and Galloway, and the younger St. Vincent girls were at a small, informal supper when Phoebe nearly crashed through the dining room, so opposed to her usual graceful, ladylike self, and cried, “It’s a boy!”

All plates forgotten, they all followed her back up the stairs at a jog to find Evie and Sebastian holding their tiny new son in bed together. Evie was positively glowing, though she looked ready to fall asleep at any moment. “A boy,” McKay said, all relief evident in his face, and he pulled his young wife closer to him, squeezing her hand. Miranda and Claire cooed over their beautiful new brother and asked what he would be called.

“Gabriel,” Evie answered softly. She had not taken her eyes off her boy. “As beautiful as an angel, and look at his eyes- all of the wisdom of the world.” His eyes were, as with all newborns, closed.

When their guests had cleared out to give the new parents some peace (Lord Westcliff couldn’t help but chuckle at that idea), Evie looked up at her husband, who had been mostly quiet since Dr. Crowley had announced Gabriel’s arrival. “My love, are you happy?”

He smiled, softly. “More than I ever thought possible.”

Evie stroked a finger across her baby’s tiny knuckles. She had forgotten how very small they were. “Phoebe and Argus are relieved, you couldn’t miss that.”

Sebastian nodded. “But what about him?” He capped his large hand over his son’s head, with its few wispy golden hairs. “All of this pressure and bollocks heaped onto him before he’s an hour old?”

Evie looked down at her little Gabriel, the future Duke of Kingston, and at her husband, who had been a scoundrel when she met him, every gentleman in London’s favorite showrunner at his gaming hall, the tenderest of papas to her three girls, and her own best friend, all before he was a duke. “You will show him the way, my love. And we will cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Sebastian smiled wider then. “Are we to take our son-in-law’s life advice now?”

And they both laughed, their son sleeping between them.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide! I really enjoyed writing for the Wallflowers, and it's one of my favorite series. I've had their 'futures' planned out in my head for quite some time!


End file.
